to smoke a cigarette on the terrace after dinner. He decided to go and look out for her. It was risky-he might be seen by Mr. Duchwitz-but he felt lucky today.
In a corner of the church, next to the workbench and tool rack, was a sink with a cold water tap. Harald had not washed for two days. He stripped off his shirt and got cleaned up as best he could without soap. He rinsed out the shirt, hung it on a nail to dry, and put on the spare one from his bag.
An arrow-straight drive half a mile long led from the main gates to the castle, but it was too exposed, and Harald took a roundabout route to approach the place through the wood. He passed the stables, crossed the kitchen garden, and studied the back of the house from the shelter of a cedar tree. He was able to identify the drawing room by its French windows, which were open to the terrace. Next to it was the dining room, he recalled. The blackout curtains were not yet drawn, for the electric lights had not yet been switched on, although he saw the flicker of a candle.
He guessed the family was having dinner. Tik would be at school-Jansborg boys were allowed home once a fortnight, and this was a school weekend-so the dinner party would consist of Karen and her parents, unless there were guests. He decided to risk a closer look.
He crossed the lawn and crept up to the house. He heard the sound of a BBC announcer saying that Vichy French forces had abandoned Damascus to an army of British, Commonwealth, and Free French. It made a pleasant change to hear of a British victory, but he found it hard to see how good news from Syria was going to help his cousin Monika in Hamburg. Peeping in through the dining room window, he saw that dinner was over, and a maid was clearing the table.
A moment later, a voice behind him said, “What do you thinking you’re doing?”
He spun around.
Karen was walking along the terrace toward him. Her pale skin was luminous in the evening light. She wore a long silk dress in a watery shade of blue-green. Her dancer’s carriage made it seem as if she were gliding. She looked like a ghost.
“Hush!” he said.
She did not recognize him in the fading light. “Hush?” she said indignantly. There was nothing ghostly about her challenging tone. “I find an intruder peering through a window into my house and he tells me to
Harald could not decide whether Karen was genuinely outraged or just amused. “I don’t want your father to know I’m here!” he said in a low, urgent voice.
“You should worry about the police, not my father.”
The old red setter, Thor, came bounding out, ready to savage a burglar, but he recognized Harald and licked his hand.
“I’m Harald Olufsen, I was here two weeks ago.”
“Oh-the boogie-woogie boy! What are you doing skulking on the terrace? Have you come back to rob the place?”
To Harald’s dismay, Mr. Duchwitz came to the French window and looked out. “Karen?” he said. “Is someone there?”
Harald held his breath. If Karen betrayed him now, she could spoil everything.
After a moment, she said, “It’s all right, Daddy-just a friend.”
Mr. Duchwitz peered at Harald in the gloom, but did not seem to recognize him, and after a moment he grunted and went back inside.
“Thanks,” Harald breathed.
Karen sat on a low wall and lit a cigarette. “You’re welcome, but you have to tell me what this is all about.” The dress matched her green eyes, which shone out of her face as if lit from within.
He sat on the wall facing her. “I quarreled with my father and left home.”
“Why did you come here?”
Karen herself was half the reason, but he decided not to say so. “I’ve got a job with Farmer Nielsen, repairing his tractors and machines.”
“You are enterprising. Where are you living?”
“Um. . in the old monastery.”
“Presumptuous, too.”
“I know.”
“I assume you brought blankets and things.”
“Actually, no.”
“It may be chilly at night.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Hmm.” She smoked in silence for a while, watching darkness fall like a mist over the garden. Harald studied her, mesmerized by the twilight on the shapes of her face, the wide mouth and the slightly crooked nose and the mass of wiry hair that somehow combined to be bewitchingly lovely. He watched her full lips as she blew out smoke. Eventually she threw her cigarette into a flower bed, stood up, and said, “Well, good luck.” Then she went back into the house and closed the French window behind her.
That was abrupt, Harald thought. He felt deflated. He stayed where he was for a minute. He would have been happy to talk to her all night, but she had got bored with him in five minutes. He remembered, now, that she had made him feel alternately welcomed and rejected during his weekend visit. Perhaps it was a game she played. Or maybe it reflected her own vacillating feelings. He liked the thought that she might have feelings about him, even if they were unstable.
He walked back to the monastery. The night air was already cooling. Karen was right, it would be chilly. The church had a tiled floor that looked cold. He wished he had thought to bring a blanket from home.
He looked around for a bed. The starlight that came through the windows faintly illuminated the interior of the church. The east end had a curved wall that had once enclosed the altar. To one side, a broad ledge was incorporated into the wall. A tiled canopy stood over it, and Harald guessed it had once framed some object of veneration-a holy relic, a jeweled chalice, a painting of the Virgin. Now, however, it looked more like a bed than anything else he could see, and he lay down on the ledge.
Through a glassless window he could see the tops of trees and a scatter of stars against a midnight blue sky. He thought about Karen. He imagined her touching his hair with a fond gesture, brushing his lips with hers, putting her arms around him and hugging him. These images were different from the scenes he had imagined with Birgit Claussen, the Morlunde girl he had dated at Easter. When Birgit starred in his fantasies, she was always taking off her brassiere, or rolling on a bed, or ripping his shirt in her haste to get at him. Karen played a subtler part, more loving than lustful, although there was always the promise of sex deep in her eyes.
He was cold. He got up. Maybe he could sleep in the airplane. Fumbling in the dark, he found the door handle. But when he opened it he heard scuttling sounds, and recalled that mice had nested in the upholstery. He was not afraid of scuttling creatures, but he could not quite bring himself to bed down with them.
He considered the Rolls-Royce. He could curl up on the backseat. It would be roomier than the Hornet Moth. Taking the canvas cover off, in the dark, might take a while, but perhaps it would be worth it. He wondered if the car doors were locked.
He was fumbling with the cover, looking for some kind of fastening that he could undo, when he heard light footsteps. He froze. A moment later, the beam of an electric torch swept past the window. Did the Duchwitzes have a security patrol at night?
He looked through the door that led to the cloisters. The torch was approaching. He stood with his back to the wall, trying not to breathe. Then he heard a voice. “Harald?”
His heart leaped with pleasure. “Karen.”
“Where are you?”
“In the church.”
Her beam found him, then she pointed it upward to shed a general light. He saw that she was carrying a bundle. “I brought you some blankets.”
He smiled. He would be grateful for the warmth, but he was even more happy that she cared. “I was just thinking of sleeping in the car.”
“You’re too tall.”
